


your presence will dominate my memory

by mardia



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-03
Updated: 2012-03-03
Packaged: 2017-11-01 02:23:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/350909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mardia/pseuds/mardia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the first year after Sherlock’s death, Lestrade was occupied with two things: trying to save his career in the Met, and keeping a close eye on John Watson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	your presence will dominate my memory

**Author's Note:**

> Nothing belongs to me. Title comes from the song “Carry You Around” by Ani DiFranco. (The line Lestrade quotes in the story comes from Terry Pratchett’s Men at Arms. (I like to think Lestrade’s a fan of Sam Vimes.)

The first person who discovers that Sherlock Holmes is not in fact dead, is Greg Lestrade.

The first thing Lestrade does upon discovering this news is punch Sherlock Holmes in his fat, stupid, _utterly selfish_ face. 

It occurs to him, as he's breathing heavily with rage, his knuckles smarting, that Sherlock did very little to avoid that blow. Hardly anything in fact. The thought doesn't make him any less angry, although perhaps it should. Perhaps it ought to help matters, Sherlock not defending himself, although Lestrade doesn't think anything could help matters at this late point.

Sherlock, from the distance from which he'd staggered to immediately following Lestrade's punch to the face, carefully dabs at his bloody mouth and says, quiet, "Congratulations."

"On what?" Lestrade demands. "Hitting you in the face? Let me tell you something, that wasn't too difficult, and I might not mind doing it again. Unless the next words out of your mouth are, 'I'm sorry, Greg' and even that might not save you, you complete _bastard_."

Sherlock doesn't apologize. Instead he looks at Lestrade with those pale, unearthly eyes and says, his mouth still bleeding, "Congratulations. On your new marriage."

Lestrade does not do two things. He does not hit Sherlock again. And he absolutely does not let his thumb brush against the ring on his left hand. The ring that Sherlock, damn him, has already somehow observed is not the same one Lestrade wore three years ago, before Sherlock had fucked off to destinations unknown and left them all behind to grieve for a man who, after all, was not really dead.

Lestrade doesn't do either of those things. Instead, Lestrade stares at Sherlock with burning eyes and says, heavily, "I should have hit you in the nose."

*

Lestrade doesn't get home until very late that evening. Late enough, in fact, that by rights it's no longer evening at all, but very very early in the morning. He leaves Sherlock waiting outside the front door, and Sherlock acquiesces, easily enough that if Lestrade weren’t still so utterly furious, he’d be surprised. 

The flat is dark when he gets there, but it doesn't matter, Lestrade can make his way about easily enough. He heads over to the bedroom, footsteps nearly silent on the carpet as he opens the door and walks in. 

There's a cane propped up on the bedside table that Lestrade knows better than to touch, and he reaches out, with a heavy heart and a throat that seems to get tighter by the minute, to gently shake the sleeping figure in the bed. 

"John? John, you've got to get up now."

John's a light sleeper, under most circumstances, and it doesn't take a second for him to wake up, blinking at him with alert eyes. "Greg? What's wrong?"

Greg exhales, and takes a second—just one second—to be utterly selfish himself, and to lean forward and brush a kiss against his husband's forehead. John's skin is sleep-warm against his mouth, and Lestrade takes a second to revel in it, even as he can feel John's forehead furrowing, knowing the exact bemused expression that'll be on John's face when he pulls back. 

And sure enough, there it is, as John says carefully, "Well, thank you for that, that's a very nice way to be woken up at a quarter to two in the morning. But again, I have to ask, what's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," Lestrade corrects him, then winces. "Well, not exactly wrong, it's just that—" But there is nothing "just" about this, and Lestrade finds himself shaking his head in frustration, too many words rising up to utter out loud.

"Greg?"

Lestrade exhales once more, meets his husband's gaze—and then he tells John everything.

*

For the first year after Sherlock’s death, Lestrade was occupied with two things: trying to save his career in the Met, and keeping a close eye on John Watson. 

Not that John didn’t seem to be doing well enough, under the circumstances. He went to work regularly, found ways to avoid the press, didn’t seem to be drinking himself into a stupor or falling into a deep depression. 

He seemed fine enough, if you didn’t look at the cane, or directly at his eyes. 

So Lestrade looked out for him as best as he could, dragging him out to restaurants, the cinema, trying to take him out of the flat, out of his own head, maybe. He wasn’t sure how much it was helping, but John never turned down one of his invitations, never turned down a chance to watch a football match at Lestrade’s flat, and always smiled whenever he looked up and met Lestrade’s gaze.

Lestrade thought things were going well enough, until he woke up one morning to twenty missed calls on his mobile, and a front-page expose in the _Guardian_ detailing the real truth about Sherlock Holmes and one “Richard Brooks”.

It took him nearly the entire day to track John down, and once he did, Lestrade couldn’t think of a thing to say. “John,” he finally managed, sounding almost winded, “What the _hell_.”

John lets out a quiet laugh. “Yeah, I know. Bit surprising.”

“You’ve got the Met in a frenzy and every journalist in the country beating down your door, so yeah, I’d say surprising is the least of it.”

John looked at him. “Will this cause problems for you at work?”

“Don’t worry about that,” Lestrade told him, although the truth was that he didn’t quite know. “John…” He stops talking at the look on John’s face.

Neither of them said anything, and then John said, his hand moving vaguely through the air, “I thought it would feel different. Finally having everyone hear the truth about Sherlock, I thought I would feel—”

He stopped again, and looked at Lestrade before finally shaking his head. “I don’t know what.” He sighed. “Do you mind…I’m sure you have a million places to be right now, but—”

“I think Tottenham’s playing tonight,” Lestrade said, interrupting him. “We can order some takeaway, I’m in the mood for Thai, personally.” The grateful look on John’s face made Lestrade look away for a moment, throat tight. 

*

"Where is he?" John asks, after Lestrade has finished telling his bizarre tale. 

"Waiting outside the front door," Lestrade said. "I told him to stay there while I explained things to you."

John is already flinging the covers back and getting out of bed, reaching for his cane automatically. "Well, we'd better let him in then, hey?"

Lestrade watches John get dressed, wary. John's not behaving exactly how Lestrade expected him to, but then, Lestrade doesn't know what he was expecting in the first place. 

John's shrugging into a jumper that was a present from Harry when he looks over at Lestrade and asks, "Greg? Are you coming?"

Lestrade unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth and somehow manages to say. "Yeah. Yeah, of course."

Sherlock, damn him, is already in the living room when they come out. He's looking around, observant as always, and Lestrade wonders what he sees, if he sees the evidence of the life they've built together, the pair of them, if he sees the differences between this tidy, modern flat and the chaos of 211B Baker Street. 

He wonders what Sherlock sees when he looks at this place, looks at them, and a tiny part of himself hates that, hates that he wonders at all. 

But Sherlock is no longer looking about the flat. He's looking at John now, those pale eyes of his seeming to burn in his face as he does. 

He looks at John, and John stares steadily back, face set in a mask, and the silence stretches on until Lestrade is ready to put his head back and shout at the top of his lungs, if only to find a way to break this awful tension.

But finally, John is the first to speak, and when he does, he sounds shockingly normal.

"Was it Greg who hit you, or Mrs. Hudson?"

Sherlock's eyes flicker to Lestrade, and Lestrade wonders if it's at the mention of Lestrade, or the sound of John calling Lestrade by his first name.

"Lestrade hit me in the mouth," Sherlock says at last. "Mrs. Hudson went for my stomach."

"Smart of her," John says, without inflection. He looks back at Lestrade and asks, with that same casual tone, "Did you put your weight behind it?"

"Yeah," Lestrade says after a moment, straightening his shoulders almost subconsciously. "Yeah, I did."

"Good," John says, and turns to Sherlock. "Thank you, you can go now."

He hasn't laid a hand on Sherlock, not even close, and Lestrade can already tell this is a blow far worse than anything Lestrade could hope to land. "John," Sherlock says after a second, and in all his time knowing and working with Sherlock Holmes, Lestrade has never heard him sound like that, ever.

"No," John says, and his voice may still be steady, but it is no longer casual, not at all, it has moved from casual to something rather terrible, for all its even tones. "No. You let me think you were dead. You let me think that for three years. You can go, Sherlock, and you shouldn't think of coming back."

John turns his back on Sherlock, and says, to Lestrade, "Let me know when he leaves, will you?" Lestrade nods numbly and John limps past him back into the bedroom, leaning heavily on the cane, the door shutting firmly behind him. 

Greg watches him leave, and then turns back to Sherlock, smiling after a moment, although it feels rather ghastly on his face, the least sincere smile he can remember giving in a long while. "Well, I think he summed things up rather well."

Sherlock, a little to Lestrade's surprise, doesn't say anything to him at all. He just turns and leaves, not bothering to shut the door behind him, so that Lestrade ends up staring at an empty hallway before saying at last, blankly, "Well. Fuck."

He gathers himself, shuts the front door and heads back into the bedroom. John is sitting on the edge of the bed, hands folded tightly in his lap, none of that terrible nonchalance left on his face, just an even more awful sort of stunned blankness.

"How are you?" Lestrade asks, knowing how inadequate the question is even as he asks it. "John—”

"He looks the same," John says, voice quiet. "I think he's even got the same coat he had before. He looks exactly the same and it's been--three _years_ it's been and he—”

"John," Lestrade says, coming over to him in a rush, sitting next to him on their bed, "John, it's all right."

"No," John says, still looking blankly at him. "It's really not.” And when John reaches out for Lestrade at last, his hands are trembling, worse than Lestrade's ever seen them before.

They've been married for just over a year, have been together longer than that, and by this point, Lestrade knows what to do, knows to fold up John's unsteady hands in his and sit there quietly with him, for as long as John needs him to. For as long as they both need him to.

*

John was the one to make the first move, which was a good thing, because Lestrade would have never dreamed of doing so himself. 

They’d been watching a friendly between England and France on the telly, and Lestrade had turned to John, about to lament the current state of their national team, when John’s mouth was, suddenly, brushing against his, the kiss dry and brief. 

Lestrade’s mouth was agape as John pulled back, eyebrow raised. “All right?” John asked, waiting, and Lestrade had sputtered for a moment before coming forward and kissing John, a proper kiss, his hands framing John’s face as he did. John leaned into it, and even just the feel of his hand gripping the front of Lestrade’s shirt was enough to knock the breath out of Lestrade—at least, that’s what it felt like.

Later, Lestrade was hovering over John, and he asked, “Is this all right? I mean, have you ever, with another bloke—”

“I haven’t,” John told him, moving restlessly beneath Lestrade’s hands, “—and Greg, of course it’s fine. Wouldn’t have kissed you if it wasn’t.”

Lestrade gave him a lopsided grin, and conceded, “No, suppose not.” But even as he leaned in to kiss Lestrade again, he could admit to his surprise at John’s answer to his question.

He didn’t think of Sherlock, not then. There was too much else to focus on, and later, Lestrade learned the value of mental restraint.

*

For the next few weeks, John and Lestrade don't really bring up the subject of Sherlock Holmes with each other. It's not exactly as if they're avoiding the subject altogether, or like they _can_ avoid it—with the fickle press full of news about Sherlock Holmes' miraculous return from the dead, Lestrade’s job at the Met, and their steady stream of visitors, from a Mrs. Hudson who wavers between fury and thankfullness, to reporters looking for a quote they're never going to get, to Harry, who seems to have taken an oath never to refer to Sherlock by name again, instead constantly calling him, "the fuckhead". 

John's relationship with his sister is complicated, and Lestrade respects that, but he's always admired Harry's talent with epithets. 

It takes Sherlock over two weeks to show up in Lestrade's office. Frankly, if Lestrade wasn't still furious as hell, he'd almost admire Sherlock's restraint—he didn't think Sherlock would even last one week.

That still doesn't mean that Lestrade isn't ordering Sherlock to get out as soon as he's within earshot.

"No," Sherlock says, as if Greg's just offered him coffee and asked if he takes cream with it, the bastard. "That new murder case of yours—"

"Is none of your damn concern," Lestrade says, sitting down in his desk opposite Sherlock's seat, and glaring at him for good measure.

Sherlock, of course, is not cowed. When is he ever? "Don't be tedious, Lestrade," he says briskly, and for a second, Lestrade truly does see red. "You need me on this case, and you know it."

"You're not getting anywhere near the case, so just _fuck off_ ," Lestrade says, and it's not until he catches a startled look outside the glass from one of his sergeants that he realizes he's nearly shouting.

Even Sherlock has fallen silent now, and is just watching Greg. Greg swallows, then says, evenly enough, "If I could put aside what you did to me—which I can't, by the way—that'll never excuse what you put John though, what you made—” He stops, shaking his head sharply, before looking Sherlock on the face.

"I watched him grieve. I watched him pick up that fucking cane again and spend a year of his life repairing your shattered reputation, and now you've come swanning back in, three years later, after letting him think, letting us _all_ think—fuck off. Fuck off, Sherlock. Go out and find another Detective Inspector to manipulate, because I'm done with you."

There is a dark, mean, nasty little part of Lestrade, born of fury and lingering hurt, that wants to add, _and John's done with you as well_ , but he refrains. John can speak for himself, after all. 

Never mind that there is currently another small part of Lestrade wondering if it's true, if John really is done with Sherlock Holmes. 

Sherlock, to Lestrade's surprise, doesn't say anything. Then he says, simply, "There were three."

"Three what," Lestrade asks, impatient, thinking this has something to do with the murder case that Sherlock so desperately wants to be a part of. 

"There were three bullets," Sherlock tells him, getting up from his seat. "Three bullets saved for my friends, just waiting to find their targets. John wasn't the only person I was trying to save back then."

He leaves before Lestrade says anything in reply.

*

“Are you serious?” Lestrade had asked, once he remembered how to speak again.

John’s face was flushed, and his hand hovered above the velvet box like he was on the verge of snatching it up again. “If you don’t want—”

“Shut it,” Lestrade said, automatic, reaching out for John’s hand to tug it back down to the table, their fingers tangling. “Just—you’re really serious. You want to marry me. _Me_.”

John was starting to smile at him. “Yeah. Obviously I do, you know, with the—” He gestured about him, as if to point out the romantic restaurant, the excellent food, and of course, the ring sitting on the table. “So?” he asked, looking at Lestrade with a mixture of nervousness and hope that was nearly as astonishing as the bleeding engagement ring in front of him. 

“Yes,” Lestrade said, blankly, then began to laugh. “If you’re mad enough to propose, God knows I’m not stupid enough to say no.”

Hardly the most romantic thing uttered, but John was laughing at him now, loud and delighted. There might have been a bit more gray in John’s hair than when they first met, but when he was laughing like that—he looked like a teenager, and the sight of him like this always set off an ache in Lestrade’s chest. 

The ring fit like a dream. They had the ceremony soon after that, very simple and quiet, going up in front of a clerk with John in his uniform, and only a few close friends as witnesses, including Mrs. Hudson and John’s sister.

Harry approached him later, after the ceremony. There was a faint wrinkle between her eyebrows, even as she smiled at him. “Look, God knows John doesn’t need anyone to protect him, but. Be careful with each other, will you? Try not to bruise the other one up too badly, if you know what I mean.”

“Of course,” Lestrade replied, even as he wanted to say, _but I don’t. I don’t have a clue what you mean._

Then Lestrade thought back to the one person who wasn’t here at this wedding, and he thought he understood, after all.

*

As satisfying as it might have felt in the moment, Lestrade knows it's not anywhere near as simple as telling Sherlock to fuck off in his office, knows it's not going to end there.

The order will come from above, and it will have the name of Lestrade's superiors on it and Mycroft Holmes' fingerprints all over it, and Lestrade will find himself working on cases with Sherlock Holmes once more. He will fume in private and snap at Sherlock in public, and none of that will matter, because as one of his favorite writers once wrote, _Personal isn't the same as important_ , and Lestrade knew it was true when he read it for the first time, and he knows it to be true now.

Lestrade knows that it’s coming, and when it does, he'll make his peace with it. Mostly.

But then there's John. John, who gave him a ring and his word, who smiles at him sleepily every morning as Lestrade hands him his coffee, who has a cane as his constant companion and more gray in his hair than he did three years ago, who never asks to accompany Lestrade on a case now.

Ridiculous to feel this way, to have this nameless apprehension still lingering in the pit of his stomach. Ridiculous, but still there, still real, for all Lestrade wishes it weren’t.

*

“John. John, wake up.” Lestrade was still half-asleep, but had the sense not to reach out and try and grab John, instead lightly shaking him with a hand in the small of his back. 

John woke with a gasp, his body stiff next to Lestrade’s in their bed, before gasping out, “Sorry, sorry, didn’t mean—”

“Shh,” Lestrade said, sitting up now. It wasn’t the first time—nor would it be the last—but it always hurt to see this, see John waking up from a nightmare, eyes wide and body stiff from remembered terror, and then have him _apologize_ for it. “John, don’t. Don’t say sorry for this.”

John went quiet, and suddenly twisted around in the bed so he was facing Lestrade, burying his head in the front of Lestrade’s thin shirt. He wasn’t crying, but his shoulders were tense beneath Lestrade’s hands, and his breathing was far too deep and measured to be natural.

“It’s all right,” Lestrade said, his hands moving in circles along John’s back. “It’s fine, it’s going to be fine.”

*

They’re watching the telly, Jonathan Ross’s face in front of them, when Lestrade takes a breath and brings it up. “We should probably talk about him.”

He’s not sure what he expects, for John to deny it or play dumb, but what he gets is John rubbing at his face before saying with a faint sigh. “Yeah, you’re probably right.” He shifts in his seat, looking at Lestrade head-on, eyes steady.

“I’ll have to work with him again,” Lestrade says. “The order hasn’t come from up above yet, but it’s a matter of time.”

“I figured as much,” John says, his voice calm. 

“Can you forgive him?”

John hesitates. “I’m not looking to forgive him, Greg.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Greg corrects, and then grimaces. “Sorry. What I mean is, you two worked well together. You were—and I know how much you missed him, I was there for that. I guess what I mean to say is—”

Lestrade’s starting to think he doesn’t even know what he means, except that John, thankfully, is cutting in now. “I’m not looking to forgive him,” he says, simply. “And I’m not looking to rewind the clock back three years.” He takes Lestrade’s hand in his, and gives him a gentle smile. “So whatever your dealings are with Sherlock from now on, don’t worry about having to factor me into the equation, all right?”

His face is warm and open, and after a moment, Lestrade smiles back, and says, “All right. Okay, then,” because it’s either say that, or insist that that’s not all there is, that—

It feels impossible, when John’s looking at him with that steady, frank gaze, to not just take him at his word.

*

He never went with John to Sherlock’s grave. Lestrade went, occasionally, even talked out a few cases once or twice—even though he felt the right fool, discussing the details of a police investigation to a headstone. But he always went alone, and John went on his own and, somehow, Lestrade never thought of asking John if he wanted company on those visits, or to ask for company of his own.

*

It’s Sherlock’s first case back, and Lestrade honestly would give his right hand for a cigarette right now. 

“Well?” he asks as Sherlock bends over the body, his breath coming out in white puffs before his face. It’s been an unusually cold winter, and Lestrade feels the night chill, even through his heavy overcoat. 

Sherlock says nothing; at least, nothing about the body before them, the case they are now working together. Instead, he turns his head slightly, and asks in a not-quite comfortable manner, without looking at Lestrade head-on, “How is he?”

There’s only one he that Sherlock could be referring to, and there are several ways for Lestrade to answer that. He could say, _piss off_ , or he could toss out, _still livid with you, so don’t bother trying_. He could say—a great deal, if he wanted.

“He’s doing fine,” Lestrade says neutrally.

Sherlock nods, faintly, and begins. “You’re looking for a man, no taller than five feet nine, and no shorter than five feet seven…”

Lestrade exhales, and he listens to Sherlock talk, and in the pockets of his overcoat, where Sherlock cannot see, he flexes the fingers of his left hand, wedding ring still warm on his finger.


End file.
